The Walking Stick Solution
by beesandbrews
Summary: John's attempt to get Sherlock out of the house for a normal day of normal chores doesn't quite go to plan.


The noise was getting unbearable. A heavy sigh. Three discordant phrases strangled from the violin. A muttered oath. The sounds of a restless Sherlock pacing a furrow in the floor, only pausing long enough to rearrange the eclectic assortment of bric-a-brac that lined the mantelpiece before he became bored and the cycle repeated.

John gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate on getting the phrasing right for the penultimate paragraph of his latest blog entry.

The violin screeched again.

"Right. That's it. Get dressed." John shut the lid of his laptop with a hollow thump and got to his feet. "We're going out."

Blessedly, Sherlock put the violin aside. "Out? Out where?"

John pointed beyond the window at the street below. "Out there. Into the real world. You're starting to get that look again."

Sherlock pivoted sharply and his eyes narrowed. John watched the twitching of his hands and the pulse that jumped above the collar of his dressing gown. "Look? What look? I don't have a look."

John sighed and wondered not for the first time about suggesting a trial course of Ritalin. He faced off with his flatmate as he tried to marshal his temper. "The look that says I should lock up the firearms and your chemistry set. emBad Things/em happen when you get that look."

Sherlock made a pre-emptive strike, moving to stand between the table where his chemicals stood at the ready and John. "It wasn't that big of an explosion."

John looked pointedly down at the rug that concealed the scorched floorboards. "Mrs Hudson might beg to differ."

Sherlock pulled a sulky face. "I'm bored, John. I need a case."

John shook his head. "You emneed/em to connect with real – I mean ordinary – not criminal – people. You need some fresh air. You've got cheques to deposit at the bank. We need to food shop. We'll take care of the housekeeping and then have lunch at a pub."

"Boring."

John stared Sherlock down, arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock threw up his hands in defeat. "Fine."

"The exercise will do you good," John insisted as Sherlock stalked off to his room to shave and dress.

Forty-five minutes later they were standing in the lobby of Sherlock's bank. The brisk walk had done them both good, although John was slightly out of breath from keeping up with his companion's long-legged striding. He leaned against the convenience counter, trying not to look as winded as he felt, and inclined his head towards the other customers waiting to be served. "There's the queue."

Sherlock frowned at him. "Don't you have them?"

John frowned back. "Have what?"

Sherlock's expression turned to pure exasperation. "The cheques, John. Don't you have the cheques?"

Granted, John took care of their bookkeeping. He even used Sherlock's ATM card from time to time, but Sherlock was responsible for paying in the deposits, even if he had no interest in the money he earned.

He received a shrug in reply. "Oh well, no use hanging about. Come on, John. I saw an interesting looking antique shop. We may as well stop in as long as we're here."

Sherlock was off again. He was halfway across the lobby before John could react, and out the door two strides after that.

John growled. He apologised to the woman Sherlock had all but knocked over on his way out and hurried to catch up. When he did, Sherlock was busy inspecting a sturdy-looking, silver-tipped ebony walking stick under the supervision of a sharply dressed man with bright blue eyes and a thick head of snowy white hair.

"Ah, John. Just in time." He held out the stick and twirled it, nearly upsetting a display of china elephants. "Pay Mr Woolsbury, will you? Oh - " he added in a sotto voice so that the old man couldn't hear. " – And get a hold of Lestrade. Tell him the bank is about to be robbed. I'll be outside." He pressed the price tag into John's hands and strode out the door again, stick in hand.

John felt his jaw drop. He closed his mouth and then muttered, "I really can't take you anywhere."

Mr Woolsbury smiled affectionately at Sherlock's retreat. "My Arthur was just like him. Knew exactly what he wanted. Never stayed in a shop a minute longer than he had to. Bless him." He gave John a wistful look. "Forty happy years. I hope you are as lucky, young man."

John didn't even bother correcting him. He just handed over his credit card and the price tag with an exasperated sigh, and then relayed Sherlock's tip about the robbery via text message as the shopkeeper rattled on about his Arthur.

Outside, things began to happen. People screamed. A pair of constables went pounding past the window. Inside the shop, Mr Woolsbury kept talking as he marked the walking stick out of his inventory.

John felt his blood pressure sky-rocket again as his credit card was held ransom to reminisces about Arthur's exploits in Rouen when he was dragged along on a buying holiday. Beyond the shop window, events became steadily more chaotic as police vehicles, including the armed response team, began to clog the busy shopping district.

John bounced on the toes of his shoes, his impatience getting the better of him. Finally, Mr Woolsbury wound down. With a sigh of relief, John thanked the misty-eyed antiquarian and made good his escape. He found the bank robbers hadn't been quite so lucky.

Sherlock, four constables, one apparent bank manager clutching a cash-stuffed shopping bag, and a clearly upset looking woman, were at the centre of the crowd of civilian onlookers and various sorts of police. They, in turn, stood in a sloppy ring around two men sitting on the pavement, one of whom held his head in his hands, and the other who rubbed at his shins as he muttered a steady stream of curses. As John pushed through the gawkers, more sirens screamed up the street. Seconds later, a van screeched to a halt in front of the bank.

More constables joined the crowd. Two especially burly specimens pushed through the rest and took charge of the prisoners, reading them their rights as they frogmarched them to the van. Another car, this one unmarked save for its emergency lights, arrived on the scene. Lestrade and Donovan got out, spoke briefly to the sergeant in charge, and joined the fray.

"You took your time, Lestrade." Sherlock sounded faintly disapproving.

"This isn't exactly my patch," he replied without rancour. Donovan made up for it in spades, glowering at Sherlock for all she was worth. "What tipped you?"

Sherlock shrugged and then began to explain in a rapid fire monologue. "Man loitering outside the bank. Could have been nothing, except he was reading strongThe Sun/strong upside down. Not even that angle would improve this morning's Page 3 girl according to John, so I had my suspicions. Inside the bank, I saw his partner. Theatrical make up. Not bad. Probably did his share of Am Dram, maybe even some semi-legitimate stage work. Horsehair beard and moustache. A bit sloppy with the glue. You can see it in the fibres under his nose. Also, he had a gun rather poorly concealed under his jacket tucked into the waistband of his jeans." Sherlock handed the replica pistol over to Lestrade.

Donovan pulled a unimpressed face that earned a sour look from her boss.

The bank manager, on the other hand, was completely awestruck. "Thank you, Mr Holmes!" he said effusively. He handed the cash stuffed bag to the woman at his side. She dropped her tear-stained handkerchief and wobbled straight into the arms of Sgt. Donovan. He then clasped Sherlock's hand in both of his. "I can't tell you how much your quick thinking means to myself and our depositors. If you ever need anything in the way of my personal service, you've only to ask."

"Really?" Sherlock disentangled his fingers and handed John his new walking stick. He pulled his wallet out of the inside breast pocket of his coat. "If you wouldn't mind seeing to this deposit?" He stuffed a fat stack of cheques into the bank manager's hands. "Thank you." He glanced over at Lestrade. "We were on our way to lunch. Would you care to join us? I'm sure Sally wouldn't mind finishing up here. Come on, John." Sherlock sauntered away. He looked considerably happier than he had when they'd left the flat, examining the passers-by with a keen eye that signalled a renewed interest in life.

Donovan gave his retreating back a death glare that she then proceeded to rake over Lestrade as he hurried off after Sherlock. It was clear the Detective Inspector wasn't entirely satisfied with Sherlock's blithe explanation that the two men had simply tumbled at his feet.

The crowd began to dissipate as Donovan took control of the scene. John gave Sherlock's new acquisition an experimental twirl. He bobbled the first try. The silver tip wasn't just ornamental, it was weighted with lead. Between the solid weight of the tip and the heavy knob of the handle, in the right hands, the walking stick could be a formidable weapon.

He glanced around at the unfolding circus and noticed Mr Woolsbury standing in the doorway of his shop. John raised his hand in greeting, suddenly feeling more sympathetic towards the older man.

They really weren't that much different, him and the old antiquarian. Mr Woolsbury talked his customers' ears off about his Arthur, and John blogged daily about Sherlock. In their own ways, neither one of them could resist sharing stories about the men who made their lives richer.

"Come on, John," Sherlock called. He stood a little ways down the street, beckoning.

John shook off his reverie, gave the walking stick a much more competent twirl, and hurried to catch up.


End file.
